


Lost in the Valley of the Night

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Amalgamation of book and movie, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon timeline (roughly), I will add more as they come up, M/M, Oral Sex, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of nights leading up to Enjolras's and Grantaire's final night together. Set during canon-timeline (as much as possible). Based on the songs "One More Night" and "Daylight" by Maroon 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night One

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one-shot songfic that has somehow morphed into...well, this. 
> 
> Each chapter is based on "One More Night" and "Daylight" by Maroon 5. "One More Night" (left-aligned quote) belongs to Enjolras's point of view; "Daylight" (right-aligned quote) to Grantaire's. 
> 
> I tried to follow the canon timeline as much as possible, though I fear I've made it into a mix between the Brick and the film and thus it doesn't really follow much of anything. Some of the dialogue in this chapter is re-purposed from the Brick (and taken terribly out of context, for the most part).
> 
> My first attempt at something like this, so as usual, please be gentle!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of this, whether songs, characters, or even inspiration, really. All mistakes are my own.

“You and I go hard  
At each other  
Like we're going to war”

_“Here I am waiting_  
 _I'll have to leave soon_  
 _Why am I holding on?”_

Enjolras was in his element. In the poorly-lit, smoke-filled back room of the Café Musain, his voice swelled and receded and he listed the litany of grievances against the government, grievances against which the people must rise. He could practically feel the blood boiling in his rapt listeners, and knew that he was getting through to them, inspiring them. The best part, of course, was that he was doing this all on account of beloved Patria. They would rise, together, to ensure a brighter future for the whole of France.

He moved fluidly into the end of his speech, the recap of what needed to be done to ensure the rise of the barricades would be successful. “It is proper that we should know where we stand and on whom we may count. If combatants are required, they must be provided. How many of us are there? There is no question of postponing this task until tomorrow. Revolutionists should always be hurried; progress has no time to lose. Let us mistrust the unexpected. Let us not be caught unprepared.”

His words were seconded with a hearty “Here, here” from most quarters of the room, save for one. The lone figure lounging across two chairs in the far corner had let out a snort of derision. But of course. Grantaire. Monsieur “R” himself. The man who stood for nothing, believed in nothing, and, assumedly, fought for nothing. How unsurprising that he would take fault with Enjolras’s speech.

“Citizen Grantaire, have you comment to add?” asked Enjolras, trying to keep his voice light, trying not show how his teeth ground to frustration just upon viewing the other man.

Now Grantaire smirked up at him in that way that made Enjolras long for a convenient wall to punch. “Ah, noble Apollo, how kind of you to ask,” he slurred. Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. Drunk, of course. Even better. “You speak of not being caught unprepared. This is folly in and of itself.”

“Enlighten us, citizen,” said Enjolras dryly, though mildly interested to see where Grantaire would go with it.

To his absolute lack of surprise, Grantaire smiled almost sweetly and raised his glass in a mocking salute. “There is but one certainty, my full glass.” Enjolras scowled and turned away, ready for more esteemed conversation, but to his actual shock, Grantaire continued talking, rising from his seat with his wine glass in one hand. “Ever since this morning I have been waiting for daylight to come; it has not come, and I bet that it won’t come all day. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits anything else, this old world is all warped. Now, I insist on a drink.” He took a long pull from his wine, his eyes never leaving Enjolras’s. Enjolras found he could not look away; Grantaire’s voice was rough from the drink but had a compelling quality to it that demanded his attention. “The earth is a great piece of stupidity. And it appears to me that you are going to fight, all you imbeciles, and to break each other’s profiles and to massacre each other in the heat of summer, in the month of June, when you might be off with a creature on your arm, to breathe the immense heaps of new-mown hay in the meadows!” With that said, he toasted Enjolras and drained his wine.

Enjolras was seething. Leave it to Grantaire to be the one who could also make pretty speeches that stirred up a fire in people, but leave it to Grantaire to use that power to discourage action instead of calling for the people to rise. Enjolras caught himself grinding his teeth again and noticed that an unusual hush had fallen over the room. The crowd was clearly waiting for Enjolras’s response. Very well, then. Enjolras took a deep breath, then let out a huff of disdainful laughter. “Are you good for anything?” he asked the raven-haired man scornfully.

Grantaire smiled almost lazily at him. “I have a vague ambition in that direction.”

“You do not believe in anything.” It was not an accusation; it was a statement of fact.

Raising one eyebrow, Grantaire responded, voice almost soft, “I believe in you.”

That stopped Enjolras in his tracks for a moment, and murmurs broke out across the room. _I believe in you_. What had the man meant by that? Obviously he did not believe in Enjolras’s ideals, and Enjolras was nothing without his ideals. Perhaps Grantaire had meant it as a joke, to make a mockery of all that Enjolras had worked for, and he found himself getting suddenly angry. “Then will you do me a service?” he asked, eyes boring into Grantaire’s.

A small smile still hovered on Grantaire’s lips. “Anything. I’ll black your boots.”

Enjolras’s lip curled in what could only be called disgust. “Don’t meddle in our affairs. Sleep yourself sober from your absinthe.”

With that, Enjolras turned away, back to his lieutenants to continue the planning. Grantaire was not done, however. “I could do more,” he said boldly, speaking to Enjolras’s back, moving toward the other man, ignoring the obvious set of Enjolras’s shoulders.”

Enjolras barely spared a glance over his shoulder. “Be serious,” he said curtly.

Grantaire touched Enjolras’s shoulder gently. “I am wild,” he replied.

Enjolras had had enough. Spinning around, he grabbed Grantaire’s arm, marching him toward the door. “If the only certainty you can find is in your glass, so be it, but you’ll not find it here any longer,” he practically snarled. He pushed Grantaire into the hallway outside of back room, his eyes and the clench in his jaw displaying his anger like a badge. “We have actual work that we need do, and can ill afford to be interrupted by the ravings of a drunk. Keep to your cups, Grantaire, and keep out of here.” Then he closed the door in Grantaire’s face.

* * *

 Grantaire looked up from his easel at the sound of knocking on his flat’s door. It was one of those exceedingly rare nights were he had chosen to stay in rather than slinking out to the nearest bar. True, two empty wine bottles on the floor at his feet were testament to the fact that he wasn’t exactly sober, but two bottles of wine were also hardly enough to make him drunk either.

Still, once he had determined that the knocking on the door was actually real, he went to answer it. To his surprise, Courfeyrac and Bahorel practically dragged a third man into his apartment. To his absolute shock, that man looked suspiciously like a bruised and beaten Enjolras, an Enjolras who also smelt suspiciously like cheap whiskey. Lots of cheap whiskey.

It was only after depositing Enjolras on Grantaire’s dingy second-hand armchair that Courfeyrac and Bahorel offered an explanation. “Bar fight,” said Courfeyrac, strangely cheerful about the whole thing. “Someone apparently insulted Patria, and Enjolras did not take it well.”

“And the whiskey?” asked Grantaire. “I was under the impression our fair leader abstained from such distractions.”

A small grin flitted across Bahorel’s face. “Believe it or not, you can attribute Enjolras’s inebriation to Joly, of all people.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Joly?” he echoed.

“Mmm.” Bahorel was still grinning. “Joly was using the whiskey to wipe down the wounds, and told Enjolras to drink a bit to numb the pain.”

“But then nobody thought to tell our fair leader to stop drinking,” added Courfeyrac, a twinkle in his eye.

Bahorel’s grin had become almost devilish. “We just all thought it would be best to…let him carry on a bit. You know how he gets.”

Grantaire did indeed know how Enjolras could get; just the previous night the two had fought, which is to say, more accurately, Enjolras had accused Grantaire of being a waste of space and not loyal to the cause. Grantaire had made a glib comment, and to cut a long story short, the evening had ended with Enjolras physically pushing him out of the café and telling him not to bother returning. All in all, not one of Enjolras’s and Grantaire’s better evenings, and thus a bit surprising that less than 24 hours later, the man in question was now in Grantaire’s apartment. “All that is very well and good,” said Grantaire carefully, “but why exactly did you bring him here, of all places?”

Courfeyrac and Bahorel exchanged glances. “Your place was closest,” Courfeyrac volunteered, “and while he may not look it, our dear Enjolras weighs quite a bit.”

“And,” interjected Bahorel, “if anyone knows how to tend a drunk who got into a bar fight, well…”

He trailed off, but Grantaire could fill in the rest himself. “Yes, it would be me,” he said sourly. He saw that Courfeyrac and Bahorel were looking at him apprehensively, and he waved a hand dismissively. “Go, it’s fine,” he sighed. “I shall look after him.” Without seemingly a second glance, both other men took off, and Grantaire turned around to examine his patient. Enjolras was plopped rather precariously on the armchair, and as Grantaire looked, he could see that the other man was about to fall off. “Damnit,” Grantaire swore under his breath as he rushed over, but he was too late.

Enjolras fell to the floor with a crash, and opened his eyes for the first time since being unceremoniously dragged into Grantaire’s apartment. “Ow,” he said, sounding more surprised than anything. He swiveled his head around, taking in his surroundings, and his eyes landed on Grantaire. It took a moment for him to process, but then he smiled a little too widely, aided as he was by the whiskey. “‘Taire!” he exclaimed, making as if to stand but being unable to. “What brings you here?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “This is my flat, Enjolras,” he informed him. “Courfeyrac and Bahorel brought you here.”

“Your flat?” Enjolras frowned. “Why’m I at your flat?”

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire edged over to where Enjolras still sat on the floor. “Because apparently drunks take care of drunks,” he said, a wry twist to his mouth.

Enjolras considered this for a moment. “M’not drunk,” he announced imperiously. “You’re drunk.”

“For once, noble leader, you have it entirely backwards.”

With a frown, Enjolras retored, “No, m’not drunk. I’ll prove it.” He tried to stand up, with no avail, and frowned deeper. “M’legs aren’t working.”

Grantaire had to bite his tongue to keep from sniggering. “That’s because you’re drunk.”

Enjolras looked so pitiful sitting there on the floor that Grantaire could not help but take pity on him. “Come on,” he sighed, reaching over to take the blond man’s arm. “Let’s get you to bed.” It took two tries for Grantaire to stand Enjplras up – Enjolras hadn’t been joking about his legs not being able to work while intoxicated – but after a ten minute struggle down the hall, Grantaire helped Enjolras on to the bed.

The other man tried half-heartedly to remove his shirt, but as he had forgotten to take his cravat off first, his clothes ended up in a tangled mess. This time, Grantaire could not keep from laughing at the sight, and Enjolras gave him a wounded look. “Help me,” he demanded, and Grantaire sighed.

“You ruin all my fun, Enjolras,” he murmured, helping the man remove his cravat and shirt. Enjolras’s jacket and waistcoat had assumedly gone missing in the bar fight, as he had not been wearing them upon entering Grantaire’s flat, so in no time at all Enjolras sat on Grantaire’s bed, naked from the waist up. Grantaire could not help but stare at the man in front of him, whose flawless skin was pale as marble in the flickering candlelight. He longed to trace the lines of his muscles with his fingertips ( _and with his tongue_ whispered the evil voice inside of his head), and wished for a brief moment that his chosen medium was sculpture and not paint so that he could try and make some facsimile of what he saw before him. Shaking his head to clear it of these thoughts, Grantaire mused that he really must need more wine. These were the sort of thoughts that more or less required a strong drink, especially since it was not the first time he had thought them.

It was, however, the first time that his idol was lounging in his bed, shirtless, and looking absolutely delectable, so Grantaire could almost forgive himself the thoughts, despite having made his mind for the millionth time that he could not longer continue to harbor these feelings for the man with the emotions – and the _body_ , damnit – of a marble statue. But try as he might, as much as the more sober part of his brain tried to convince him that Enjolras would never feel the same way about him, he could not get the other man out of his head. And this little sleepover was not going to help matters one bit. Realizing that he had been staring for far too long, Grantaire cleared his throat nervously. “Well, try and get some rest, Enjolras,” his voice sounding entirely unnatural. “I shall be in the other room if you need anything.”

Enjolras nodded sleepily, then paused, cocking his head to one side quizzically. “If I’m sleeping in your bed, where’re you going to sleep?”

It was a valid question. Grantaire’s flat was modest, with just enough furnishings for one person, but he waved his hand dismissively. “I shall sleep in my armchair. It’s happened often enough.” And it had, when Grantaire had been too drunk to make it into his own bed, but he saw no need to tell Enjolras that.

The blond man was frowning, looking even more beautiful for it. “You should sleep in your own bed,” he said, sounding more like his normal self.

“Can’t,” said Grantaire lightly, edging toward the door. “You’re sleeping in my bed.”

Enjolras stared at him with unblinking eyes. “Then sleep with me.”

The breath caught in Grantaire’s throat as he stared at the man in front of him. “That…that may not be such a good idea.”

“S’only fair,” Enjolras slurred, and any semblance to his sober self fell away. “I’d feel bad if I removed you from your own bed.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yes, and heaven forbid you should feel bad, Apollo…” But he was moving back toward the bed, drawn as inexplicably as the moth to the flame. After a long moment, he sighed and said, “Very well, though if you regret it on the morrow, it shall be no fault of mine.”

He removed his waistcoat and cravat, trying to stop his fingers from trembling as they hastily undid the buttons of his shirt. Enjolras had already lain down on the bed, his eyes closed, and Grantaire quickly blew the candle out before clambering in beside him. He pulled the coverlet over them both, then curled onto his side, trying to keep as far from the other man as possible, trying to ignore the way his skin had broken into gooseflesh, trying to ignore the way his pants seemed to have grown overly tight.

They lay in silence, and Grantaire wondered if Enjolras had already fallen asleep. Then the blond man muttered, “M’sorry.”

“What for?” asked Grantaire, raising an eyebrow even though Enjolras could not see him in the dark.

Enjolras’s voice was muffled. “For the other night. For what I said. It was…dishonorable of me to stop you from speaking, as dishonorable as it is for the upper classes to suppress the poor.”

Grantaire would have been concerned that Enjolras was sobering up on him, except for the fact that he recognized the timbre to the words and figured that they were not Enjolras’s own. “Combeferre told you as much, did he?”

He could almost feel Enjolras’s smile in the dark. “Mayhaps.”

“Well, while we are on the topic of apologies, I too owe one. I had not meant to speak against your vision, it’s just…What I said the other day…” he stopped, trying to formulate words. “When I said you could be off with a creature on your arm…” Enjolras shifted next to him, but made no move to interrupt, and Grantaire threw chance to the wind. “I wanted to be the creature on your arm,” he whispered, wishing desperately he could stop the blush that spread across his face, even if Enjolras could not see it. “I would that we could away somewhere, together, to make love in the middle of some meadow, far from Paris, from the barricades.”

Following this statement, Enjolras was silent, and Grantaire prayed to whatever deity there may be that he had calculated correctly and that Enjolras would remember none of this the following day. Then he heard the heavy quality of the other man’s breathing and realized with a start that Enjolras had fallen asleep. Grantaire sighed deeply and closed his eyes, hoping fervently that sleep would claim him quickly as well.


	2. Night 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't own them and never will.
> 
> Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

“You and I go rough  
We keep throwing things and  
Slamming the door”

_“We knew this day would come_  
 _We knew it all along_  
 _How did it come so fast?”_

 

Grantaire woke the next day with a minimal hangover, which confused him for the moment, because he always woke up with a hangover. It took a moment for the events of the previous evening to come back to him, and when they did, he sat bolt upright in bed, looking intently at the empty spot next to him. Were it not for the mussed bedclothes, Grantaire might have thought that he had dreamed the whole night.

As it was, he ran a hand through his hair, remembering all too well the way he had ended the night. That imbecilic comment to Enjolras…what had he been thinking? He didn’t even have the excuse of alcohol to fall back upon, to which his lack of hangover could readily attest.

He did not regret saying what he did. The words that he had spoken were truth in the purest form. He did, however, regret saying them to Enjolras, whose understanding of what he had meant would be nonexistent. Assuming the man remembered his words at all.

As he slowly stood and stretched, he wondered vaguely which would be worse: his Apollo recalling the words that Grantaire spoke to him last night, or him not remembering. Not remembering would be easier, certainly; explanations would not be necessary, awkwardness would not ensue. But now that Grantaire had finally spoken the words out loud, he was not entirely sure he wanted to take them back.

Shuffling into the kitchenette in his flat, his eye was immediately drawn to the piece of parchment sitting in the middle of his table. In a neat hand that did not reveal the force of the hangover behind it, Enjolras had written, _My thanks for last night. If it is convenient for you, I will attend to your place at 7 o’clock tonight to talk with you more._  It was signed simply “E”, and Grantaire felt his stomach drop out from underneath him. He took back everything he had thought about it being easier now that it was out in the open; upon reading Enjolras’s words, Grantaire wanted nothing more than to travel back in time to stop himself from ever making mention of his feelings for Enjolras. For the love of God, he had told the blond man that he wanted to make love to him in a meadow outside of Paris!

Grantaire glanced involuntarily as the battered clock on his wall. If Enjolras was truly not coming over until 7, that left him with nine hours with which to do…something, anything to curb the panic that was welling in his chest and making it difficult for him to breathe. Grantaire breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth as Joly had once taught him, but it did not seem to help.

Instead, he reached into the cupboard and uncorked the green bottle in there, downing a long pull. Nine hours would give him just enough time to get to where he needed to be.

* * *

  

At promptly 7 o’clock that evening, almost to the second, if anyone’s counting (and Grantaire stopped counting a little after noon when he finished the second bottle and moved on to the third), Enjolras’s knock sounded on the door. For the past two hours, Grantaire had stationed himself near the door on purpose. Not that his flat was so large that even in his incredibly inebriated state he’d be unable to get to the door, but just because he wanted to ensure a timely answer to his Apollo’s knock.

Grantaire opened the door, swaying as he did so, a large and mostly false grin stretched across his face. The smile faded ever so slightly upon viewing the figure outside his door. Enjolras cut a stunning figure when sober. His waistcoat and jacket, evidently simply misplaced and not lost from the fight the evening before, looked pristine, the deep scarlet standing out against the cream of the fresh shirt that he wore. Grantaire was suddenly aware that he was wearing the same waistcoat as the night before, and he could not recall the last time he had worn a fresh shirt.

Still, the smile did not slip from his face, and good host that he pretended to be, he flung the door open, inviting Enjolras in with a half-bow. “Noble leader, I thank you for deigning to grace myself with your presence,” he said in his best impersonation of Enjolras’s most imperious manner.

Enjolras frowned deeply but stepped inside the flat at Grantaire’s invitation. “Ah…yes,” he said awkwardly. After a moment, he took a deep breath. “Citizen Grantaire, I want to extend my gratitude for allowing me, in a moment of personal weakness, to share your flat last night.”

Grantaire grinned. “Personal weakness, noble Apollo? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Frowning even deeper, Enjolras looked disapprovingly at Grantaire. “I’m quite sure you would not understand,” he said stiffly. “For men such as myself, men of honor, a night like last night was—”

“Oh-ho, men of honor, is it?” Grantaire’s smirk had slid into a sneer. “What do men such as you know of honor? Honor, was it, that led you into a fist-fight last night? Honor that led you here, drunk, – to my apartment – to my bed?”

A muscle twitched in Enjolras’s jaw. “There are some things that are worth fighting for,” he pronounced carefully, his brow furrowed. “You would do well to remember that, drink or no drink.”

Grantaire leaned against the wall. “And what things are these, Apollo? Patria, I suppose? But what has Patria ever done for me? For that matter, what has Patria done for you?”

Bowing his head, Enjolras struggled to control his temper. “If not Patria, then brotherhood, perhaps – friendship – whatever it is that keeps you from drinking yourself to death.”

Grantaire blinked incredulously. “Whatever it is that keeps me from drinking myself to death,” he repeated slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth. Then, with a half-smile, he lifted his bottle to Enjolras. “That would be you, dear Apollo. You and you alone keep me from drinking myself to death.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I knew it was too much to expect that you could possibly be serious about this, about anything.”

“Ah, but I am perfectly serious,” said Grantaire, a small smile curling his mouth. “I daresay that I have never been more serious in my entire, illustrious life.”

Laughing scornfully, Enjolras crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Illustrious? Pray tell, Grantaire, what it is precisely that makes your life so illustrious. For I look before me and see the only thing that I see every day: a drunkard, with no beliefs and no future.”

“You speak to me of having no future?” Grantaire laughed, though his eyes were filled with anger. “Me? When it is you who plots your own suicide with these foolish plans of revolution?”

Enjolras could feel his hands start to shake in anger, and he clenched them into fists, clenching his jaw at the same time. “It is not my suicide that I plot, though I would gladly give my life over to the cause if that was what was demanded of me.”

Grantaire rocked back on his heels, a wry chuckle tearing from his throat. “No, of course. It’s not suicide if it’s an honorable death. But you forget, fair Apollo – you have followers devoted to your cause. Will it be an honorable death when they, too, fall? Is that what you will think when you lead our friends to their deaths? When their blood stains your hands, will it at least be honorable blood?”

He had gone too far. Perhaps in a less inebriated state he would have noticed Enjolras tensing at his words, would have maybe controlled what he said. But the words were out there, and there was just the briefest of moments before Enjolras’s fist slammed into Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire fell to the ground, carried by the force of the blow. Enjolras stood over him for a moment, chest heaving, eyes…eyes looking suspiciously wet, if Grantaire was seeing properly through the pain that was exploding on the left side of his face.

Then Enjolras spun on his heel and headed toward the door. Grantaire felt an anger burn inside of him, undoubtedly fueled by the alcohol and the pain, so he staggered to his feet, and, in a moment of stupidity on a scale that normally even Grantaire avoided, threw his wine bottle at Enjolras’s retreating form. It smashed against the wall, sending shards of green glass and the last dregs of wine everywhere.

Enjolras stopped in his tracks and whirled around, eyes blazing. He opened his mouth to speak, to yell, to curse, Grantaire could not be sure, but Grantaire was already there, having crossed the room in three long strides, and without a moment’s hesitation, Grantaire leaned in and kissed Enjolras.

It was not a sweet kiss, nor a gentle one, more Grantaire’s lips mashed against Enjolras’s than anything. It was a moment Grantaire had wanted for so long, and a moment that he could not help but feel he had just cocked up, and badly. He leaned back, ever so slightly, trying to keep the panic he felt building in his chest from playing across his face.

Enjolras stared at him, raising one hand to touch his swollen lips, almost subconsciously. “What…what was that?” 

Grantaire cleared his throat nervously. “Though you may not have much experience with it, Apollo, it is what we call a kiss.”

Enjolras seemed too stunned still to react to Grantaire’s quip. “Yes, I know that,” he said distractedly, “but why did you…do…that?”

“Do you remember nothing from last night?” whispered Grantaire, his eyes, mere inches from Enjolras’s, searching the blond man’s with a ferocity he had seldom expressed.

Enjolras was breathing heavily, confusion etched on his features. “I thought that I did, though apparently I do not remember everything. Did we…ah…did we do this last night?”

Shaking his head slowly, Grantaire said hoarsely, “No, but how I wanted to, Apollo.”

“I see.” Enjolras’s voice was still strained, his breathing still labored. Grantaire smirked slightly, and leaned it, as if for another kiss, and Enjolras pushed him away roughly. “No, Grantaire,” he said, his voice quiet and firm. “We cannot do this.”

Grantaire frowned. “Do you mean you do not want to do this, or that we cannot do this?”

“Does it matter if the end result is the same?” asked Enjolras quietly.

Grantaire looked into his eyes. “It matters to me.”

A muscle twitched in Enjolras’s cheek, and he dropped his eyes. Grantaire thought that he could see a flush creep up Enjolras’s neck, but when the blond man raised his eyes to Grantaire’s, there was no sign of embarrassment on his marble features. “Cannot.”

“Then give me a reason,” Grantaire challenged. When Enjolras remained silent, Grantaire leaned in and placed a softer, gentler kiss on Enjolras’s lips. Then he leaned back and looked in his eyes again. “Give me a reason,” he repeated.

“I have responsibilities…” said Enjolras weakly. 

“Fie on your responsibilities,” Grantaire whispered, moving as if to kiss Enjolras for a third time.

This time, however, Enjolras was ready for it, and he held out his hand, holding Grantaire at arm’s length with an arm that seemed made of steel. “No,” he repeated, his tone final. “We cannot. _I_ cannot.”

Grantaire looked at him for a moment as if trying to decide whether he was serious. “Fine,” he said, his voice flat, almost dead-sounding. “Just…” He hesitated for a moment, then said, in a low voice that resonated with barely restrained heat. “Just tell me you did not enjoy it. Tell me that, and I shall never speak of this again, and gladly go to the barricades with the rest.”

Enjolras just gave him an unfathomable look, shook his head slightly, and left. Grantaire crossed to the open door, wanting to call after him, wanting to scream at him, wanting to do…something, anything. So he slammed the door, hard enough it almost lifted off its hinges. Then Grantaire sank to the ground, head in hands, and began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not meant to be an abusive relationship (and this is the only time in this fic that Enjolras will lay his hands on Grantaire in a violent manner). The notion of Enjolras as an abuser in certain subsets of the fandom is one that I don't get; however, Enjolras is certainly going to be riled by the implication that he's leading his friends to deaths, so...


	3. Night 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't own them, only love them. All mistakes are mine only.

“You and I get so  
damn dysfunctional  
We stopped keeping score”

_“This is our last night_  
 _But it’s late_  
 _And I’m trying not to sleep”_

Enjolras bent over the piece of parchment in front of him, the quill in his hand scratching furiously across the page, filling up with his small, neat handwriting. It was late, and he needed to get this to Combeferre by the morning. It was the outline for the next leaflet that Les Amis were putting together on the tyranny of the ruling class over the people.

He leaned back and read back over what he had written, pausing every now and again to scratch out a word or add a note in miniscule writing. He hated to congratulate himself, but this was an excellent piece of work that he had written. It contained more vim and fire than his pieces of late, and perhaps this would be the one to stir up the people.

Of course, he knew that the reason it contained more vitality was because of the pent-up frustration that he had unleashed through his quill. Enjolras’s expression soured as he ran over the events of the previous evening in his mind, and he clenched his fists involuntarily. What had Grantaire been thinking? What had led him to believe that Enjolras would want to be a part of that? Why…just, why?

What was worse was that Enjolras could not decide how he felt about the incident – as he had taken to calling it in his head. His self-avowed love was Patria, and no more, yet he could not help but bite his lip in memory of the way Grantaire’s lips had brushed his own not even twenty-four hours hence. And the more he gave thought to it, the more confused he became, with a blush spreading across his face that also seemed to spread heat throughout his chest and…lower.

Enjolras slammed his fists down on the table in frustration, upsetting his bottle of ink. “Putain!” he cursed, grabbing his paper out of the way, but not before the upper corner became saturated in ink. Still cursing under his breath, Enjolras did his best to mop up the ink from his kitchen table then laid the paper back on it, trying to examine the damage. A low moan slipped out. He would have to re-do the entire thing, and it was going to take hours.

He could feel the beginning of a headache blooming in his temples, and he resisted the urge to wad the entire thing up and throw it across the room, though just barely. He sighed and leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. This was the last thing that he needed at the moment.

A sudden knock sounded at his door, and he looked up sharply. Who could possibly be here at this hour? The knock sounded again, followed by a familiar drunken voice calling, “Dear Apollo, won’t you let me in?”

Enjolras groaned aloud, and amended his previous thought. _This_ was the last thing he needed at the moment. Still, propriety demanded that he at least send the drunk away in person, propriety and a sense of empathy for his neighbors, who did not need to be awoken with Grantaire’s increasingly loud knocks and calls.

Standing, Enjolras strode to the door and opened it. “Apollo!” cried Grantaire, swaying slightly, an absurd grin on his face and a wine bottle clenched in one hand.

“Keep your voice down,” Enjolras hissed, grabbing Grantaire’s wrist and yanking him into Enjolras’s apartment. “I have neighbors who value their rest, and I can hardly imagine that they will take kindly to your showing up here at this ridiculous hour and yelling in the hall. Speaking of the late hour at which you have arrived at my door…” He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Grantaire. “What are you doing here?”

Grantaire grinned at him, still swaying. “I wanted to see you,” he slurred. “Can’t go too long without seeing my Apollo or I start to miss your light.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras sighed and rubbed his forehead. “This is not a good night for this, Grantaire. I have work that I must complete.”

“I just…I thought that perhaps we could talk,” Grantaire said in a suddenly quiet, almost sober voice.

Enjolras looked away and cleared his throat. The unexpectedly lost look on Grantaire’s face seemed to pierce him right to his core, and he shifted his weight. “About what did you wish to talk?”

Sensing an opening, Grantaire leaned toward Enjolras. “About…us.”

“There is nothing further to discuss on that subject,” Enjolras said firmly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking seriously at the dark-haired man. “I have said all that I have intended to say on that subject.”

Grantaire grinned at him. “Ah, but I did not say all that I intended, fair Apollo.”

Scowling, Enjolras snapped, “I wish you wouldn’t use that absurd name for me.”

“But what name would you have me use for perfection put here on Earth?” asked Grantaire, his words full of levity even as he slurred harder than ever. “Perhaps I should call you David after Michelangelo’s statue. Ah, but that would not explain the light that you radiate.” The lightness had gone from Grantaire’s voice, replaced by a sense of wonder. “No, you truly are the god of sun and truth incarnate here among mortals. You bring both healing and deadly plague to my heart.”

Enjolras did not even begin to know how to respond to that, and settled for pursing his lips disapprovingly. “Is that supposed to change my mind and tear my devotion away from country and liberty?” he asked, his voice perhaps harsher than he intended.

To his surprise, Grantaire merely smiled, sad and a little sweet. “It would take someone with far more poetry than I to accomplish that. My only desire is to tell you…to tell you that I believe in you still.”

“You should leave, Grantaire.” Enjolras’s voice was soft, and he did not meet Grantaire’s eyes. “You will not find that which you seek here.”

Grantaire’s voice was quiet, but the most sober it had sounded yet. “I already have.” Enjolras shook his head wordlessly, unsure how to argue with that. Grantaire stepped toward him, his voice low and controlled. “Then throw me out, back on to the streets with the rat and vermin and the other drunks too lost to get to their own beds.”

Enjolras ground his teeth in frustration. “You know that I will not do that.” As much as he may long to take the other man by the collar of his shirt and toss him bodily into the street, he knew too well the dangers that even a sober man may find at this hour when wandering alone. He suspected that Grantaire knew as much and ground his teeth even harder still.

Stretching slightly, Grantaire smiled and raised his bottle to his lips. “Then it seems we are at an impasse. I shall not leave of my own volition, and you shall not throw me out.”

Indeed they were, and Enjolras’s scowl deepened. His headache had surfaced in full force, and the fact that he now had to finish his work with Grantaire in his flat, when he could barely finish his work when Grantaire simply in his head did not help matters. He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I have work that I need to do. If you are going to stay, why don’t you get some sleep?” he asked, returning to the table and collecting his notes.

Grantaire looked over at him, his eyes half-closed with some unspoken emotion. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said quietly. “I would rather watch you work, Apollo.”

Enjolras could not help but glowering slightly, but then he sighed. “Very well. If you insist. But you shall stay out of my way and most importantly, you shall stay silent. I must complete this by tomorrow morning.”

“I will be as quiet as a mouse – nay, quieter still,” Grantaire assured him, settling onto the ground and raising his bottle to his lips as his eyes appraised Enjolras.

Feeling his ears beginning to burn at the intensity with which Grantaire was watching him, Enjolras quickly dropped his gaze to the ruined parchment in front of him. He picked up his quill and made a few notations on the paper, but it was really no use. He was going have to completely redo it.

He stood abruptly and went to fetch a clean sheet of parchment. When he returned, it looked as if Grantaire had moved a few feet closer to the table, and Enjolras looked at him suspiciously. Grantaire just raised his eyebrows innocently. Sighing, Enjolras turned back to his paper, but had barely dipped his quill into the ink bottle when Grantaire scooted even closer yet, practically under the table at which Enjolras sat.

“Grantaire, what do you think that you are doing? Get out from under there.”

Grantaire grinned wickedly up at him. “I am doing nothing out of sorts, only exactly what I promised, keeping quiet and out of your way. But now you are breaking your own promise – you must keep working, Apollo, or you will miss the deadline for that very important leaflet.”

Enjolras thought his jaw might crack with how hard he clenched his teeth. He looked down at his paper but couldn’t seem to remember what he was supposed to be doing; his blood was pounding too loudly in his ears. Then Grantaire, who had by this point settled in at Enjolras’s feet, placed a trembling hand on Enjolras’s thigh and slid it upward. “That hardly count as staying out of my way,” Enjolras hissed, his breathing becoming more strained. “Ah, Dieu, ‘Taire, what are you doing?”

Grantaire had gotten Enjolras’s trousers pulled down enough that he could have access to the other man’s cock, which was already hard. He placed one hand around it and looked innocently up at Enjolras. “Not doing anything.”

Then he was stroking Enjolras’s cock, twisting slightly as he moved his hand toward the tip. Enjolras gripped the sides of the table with both hands. He wanted desperately to tell Grantaire to stop, but somehow the thought seemed incapable of making it from his head to his mouth.

And when Grantaire lowered his mouth to Enjolras’s cock, swallowing him nearly in one go, Enjolras thought that he might lose the capacity of speech permanently. His hips bucked involuntarily as the other man continued sucking, licking and – _Dieu in ciel_ – whatever he was doing.

His breath was coming out in strained gasps, and he knew that his moment of release was coming soon. His hands tangled in Grantaire’s hair, torn between pushing the other man away and pulling him even closer. He wanted to tell Grantaire to stop, or at least to warn him that his release was imminent, but the only thing he managed was to moan, “Grantaire…” before his back arched and his seed filled Grantaire’s mouth.

Grantaire swallowed his seed almost greedily, then leaned back, his eyes half-closed and contemplative. Still in silence, he moved out from under the table, standing in a motion that could have been graceful were he not still drunk. He straightened his own clothes as Enjolras hastily pulled his trouser back up.

“Grantaire…” Enjolras started, wincing at the sound of his own voice. He hated how weak he was in that moment, hated the way his body had betrayed him. “I…we…I’m sorry.”

Tipping him an enormous wink, Grantaire replied, his voice low and heated, “I’m not.”

Enjolras watched at Grantaire headed toward Enjolras’s bedroom. “Where are you going?”

Grantaire paused and glanced back at him. “I see no reason not to sleep now. After all – you have work to do.” Enjolras straightened at the memory of that and swore under his breath. Grantaire just smiled at him with a grin like the cat that had gotten into the cream before ducking into Enjolras’s bedroom. The metaphor made Enjolras blush scarlet and he glanced down quickly at the paper in front of him. The blank paper in front of him. Enjolras groaned. He was never going to finish this damned leaflet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this one got a little off-track from where I was intending, but hey, I'm just along for the ride. Oh, I should apologize that I'm pretty terrible at writing porn.
> 
> Translations for the vague French:  
> Putain - exclamation, similar to fuck  
> Dieu in ciel - God in heaven.
> 
> On a completely off-topic note, I do not recommend giving blowjobs from under a table. You may hit your head rather hard and it may completely ruin the mood. Or so I've heard, anyway.


	4. Night 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I own nothing but the mistakes.

“You and I get sick  
Yeah I know that we can’t  
do this no more  
But baby there you go again, there you go again  
Making me love you  
Yeah I stopped using my head, using my head  
Let it all go”

_“Cuz I know_  
 _When I wake_  
 _I will have to slip away_   
_And when the daylight comes I’ll have to go_  
 _But tonight I’m gonna hold you so close_  
 _Cuz in the dalight we’ll be on our own_  
 _But tonight I need to hold you so close”_

There were no theatrics the next night, no drunken Grantaire pounding on his door or calling to Enjolras loudly enough to wake his neighbors. Instead, Grantaire showed up at Enjolras’s, more sober than Enjolras could recall seeing him in quite some time. “Grantaire,” Enjolras said cautiously by way of greeting. He stood in the doorway, keeping Grantaire in the hallway.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire replied. “May I come in?”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Grantaire, surprisingly, does not argue, just leaned against the wall in the hallway, fingers tugging idly at his cravat. Enjolras cleared his throat expectantly. “Why are you here, Grantaire?”

Grantaire’s eyes met his. “You know why.”

And he did know. And he had mentally eviscerated himself all day for letting them get into this mess, for leading the poor man on, for not being strong enough to stop it before it had gotten this far. The only thing he had left to do was stop it from moving any further. “You should go.”

Cocking his head ever so slightly, his eyes gleaming. “That is not the first time you have told me that, and yet here I stand still.”

“A wise man might have taken the hint,” snapped Enjolras, but with no real heat in his voice.

“Or else the wise man knows when the hint is not given in earnest.”

Enjolras’s eyes snapped to his and Grantaire was a little surprised to see the sudden heat that flared there. “The hint was given in earnest,” Enjolras said, his voice low, almost growling.

Grantaire knew that he was toeing a dangerous line, but he was hardly one to worry about crossing lines. Besides which, Enjolras’s growling voice was one of the most delectable things that Grantaire had ever heard, and even though he really wasn’t drunk enough to be doing this, he could not stop himself, stepping forward to press himself against Enjolras in a deep kiss.

For one brief moment that felt like an eternity to Grantaire, Enjolras stood completely still and unyielding, and panic spiked in Grantaire’s throat. Then Enjolras had wrapped his arms around Grantaire, fingers woven into Grantaire’s hair, lips and teeth and tongues meeting in a frenzy. Grantaire would have smiled if his mouth had not been otherwise occupied tasting the sweetness of his victory.

What tasted like victory to Grantaire felt like defeat to Enjolras.

He cursed himself and he cursed his weakness, but the dark part of him in control at the moment sneered at these curses. Patria would survive for an hour without him, surely. Even gods had their trysts with mortals, and Enjolras was certainly no god. Especially with the way Grantaire was currently sucking blood bruises into his neck.

Enjolras bit back a moan and grabbed Grantaire by his loosened cravat, practically dragging the dark-haired man into his apartment. They kissed all the way to Enjolras’s bedchamber, then fell in a heap of limbs onto the pallet that took up one corner of the small room.

Grantaire’s fingers were fumbling with Enjolras’s cravat, while Enjolras clumsily tried to unbutton Grantaire’s waistcoat. “Damned…buttons,” whispered Enjolras into Grantaire’s mouth.

Huffing with laughter, Grantaire abandoned his efforts on Enjolras’s cravat. “Maybe—” “—if—” “—you—” “—could—” “—stop—” “—kissing—” “—me—” “—for—” “—half—” “—a—” “—second—” he murmured teasingly in between kisses pressed to Enjolras’s lips and neck and the triangle of skin he could get to on Enjolras’s chest.

Enjolras responded by biting down on Grantaire’s lip and Grantaire groaned, his hands skillfully rucking up Enjolras’s shirt to run over the other man’s stomach and chest. Enjolras was breathing hard against Grantaire’s mouth, and it was the sweetest sound Grantaire had ever encountered.

Deciding to take things a step further, Grantaire palmed at the tightness in Enjolras’s pants, and Enjolras suddenly recoiled. “Grantaire—no.” Enjolras could barely speak for panting so hard, and Grantaire chose to ignore him, until Enjolras pushed him away roughly. “I said no, Grantaire.”

Grantaire looked over at the other man in bewilderment. Enjolras scooted to the far side of the pallet, his shoulders drawn and hunched. “Enjolras…?” Grantaire ventured, unsure of what had gone wrong.

“I am sorry,” muttered Enjolras, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, his forehead resting on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. “This is…this is not how I wanted this to be. I should not keep doing this to you.”

Grantaire moved over to the blond man and dropped a lazy kiss onto Enjolras’s shoulder. “I’m not sorry.”

Enjolras shot him a sideways glance. “You should be.” Grantaire rolled his eyes and stretched out on his back, trying hard to catch his breath and stop his head from spinning. Enjolras paused, then he added in undertone, “You deserve more, Grantaire. So much more than I can ever give you.”

“I deserve nothing,” said Grantaire in a low voice. “I have done nothing in my life to merit that of which you speak.”

Looking closely at Grantaire, Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He could not possibly make the argument that Grantaire had made something of his life – this was, after all, the base of his public exasperation with the man – but at the same time, what did a man need to do in his life to deserve love? Many, it would seem, did not deserve love, and yet gave and received it freely. “I do not think it is a matter of doing something to deserve it,” he said carefully, his voice thoughtful. “I think it is merely enough that you are a human, and as a part of humanity, you deserve love.”

Grantaire rolled on to his side to look at him. “Using that logic, you must surely concede that you, too, deserve love, as a human being.”

Enjolras blinked in surprise. “Yes, using my logic. Did I ever say otherwise?”

“You just seem so unwilling to accept that which I offer to you,” murmured Grantaire, dropping his eyes. “But surely you must acknowledge that you deserve to be loved as much as the next man.”

“Ah, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed. “It is not what you give me which I doubt, only my reciprocity. You deserve someone who will actually return your feelings.”

Grantaire raised his eyes to meet Enjolras’s. “You do return my feelings,” Grantaire challenged, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Or at least, you have not denied it. Only that Patria remains your first and true love.”

Enjolras sighed. “But that is my point. Patria is and always will be my only love, the only thing for which I would give my life, my body, my soul. You deserve someone who would give all that for you. A man who loves and venerates you on the same level that you appear to love and venerate me – or, at least, your inane ideal of me.”

Grantaire let out a quiet snort. “I do not think a man such as that exists, at least, not that I shall find in my lifetime.”

“You still have time to look.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet, but there was an edge in it, as keen as the edge of a well-honed blade. “You do not believe in our cause; you need not stay and share our fate, whatever that fate may be.” Neither man mentioned what, precisely, that fate could be, though both thought it. “Get yourself out of Paris, away from the barricades, and maybe you shall find that which you deserve.” A pause, then, in a voice so quiet Grantaire almost could not hear him, “There is nothing for you here.”

Leaning over, almost hesitant, Grantaire stroked Enjolras’s arm with the tips of his fingers. “You are wrong,” he said simply. “You are here, and thus so is my place. There is nothing for me out there, nothing that I want, in any case.” Still hesitant, he leaned in and kissed Enjolras gently on the lips.

Enjolras did not try to stop him, but nor did he pull the other man closer or seek to continue the kiss. When Grantaire pulled back slightly, Enjolras leaned forward and gently rested his forehead against Grantaire’s, his hand automatically cupping the back of the other man’s head, curling into the dark hair. “Then you are a fool,” he breathed.

“But you knew that already,” said Grantaire, his voice just as soft.

Enjolras closed his eyes. “We cannot continue this, Grantaire.” Grantaire shifted and made as if to speak, but Enjolras cut him off. “I am serious. If you stay, if you wish to stay of your own volition, it is a decision that I cannot have a part in. I cannot in good conscience continue encouraging this behavior, not when I know what the consequences could be.” He paused, then added, “If anything were to happen to you because you stayed on account of me…I will not have your blood on my hands.”

Grantaire reached out and gently cupped Enjolras’s face in his hands. “Look at me,” he said, his voice firm. Enjolras looked up slowly, blue eyes meeting green. “If anything were to happen to me, at the barricades or wherever, it is on myself alone. You may hold my heart in your hands, even if you deny it, but my blood will never be on your hands.”

Enjolras shook his head, but did not try to argue. Instead, he said, his voice quiet but resolute, “You should go, Grantaire.”

“Let me stay, for one more night,” whispered Grantaire. “On the morrow, I will be gone, this evening no more real than a dream that slips from your memory at the break of day.”

Enjolras wanted for all the world to be strong enough to say no, to tell Grantaire to leave, but the other man’s arms felt so good wrapped around his body that he could not find it in himself to do so. Instead, he nodded silently, leaning back and closing his eyes, trying not to notice, when Grantaire laid his head in the junction where Enjolras’s neck curved into his shoulder, how perfectly they fit together.


	5. Night 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I own nothing but my own errors.

“Got you stuck on my body, on my body  
Like a tattoo  
And now I’m feeling stupid, feeling stupid  
Crawling back to you  
So I cross my heart and I hope to die  
That I’ll only stay with you one more night  
And I know I said it a million times  
But I’ll only stay with you one more night”

_“Here I am staring_  
 _At your perfection_  
 _In my arms so beautiful_   
_The sky is getting bright_  
 _The stars are buring out_  
 _Somebody slow it down”_

True to his word, Grantaire was gone before the sun rose. Perhaps because he wasn't bogged down by the hangover that normally crippled him, but when he rose from Enjolras's bed - carefully untangling himself from the sleeping man so as not to wake him - Grantaire felt strangely light, almost detached. Or maybe it was because he had never felt so grounded while at the same time cut so loose from that which had been his rock for months now.

Enjolras had tried to sever the cord binding the two men, and Grantaire would respect his wishes and not continue to pursue what he desired, but after their night together, Grantaire could not help but feel even more anchored to the blond man. He knew nothing would come of it save his own life ending on the barricades, he knew that his Apollo could not return his feelings, but the knowledge that his Apollo harbored even a sliver of feelings for him was enough. Even if he could never show it. Even if Grantaire would never again feel his lips against his, or feel his hands on his body or his comforting warmth. He had felt it for a moment, and that would be enough.

It would have to be enough.

And when the hollow emptiness inside that Enjolras would never fill became too much, as it inevitably always did, the old standbys were available. Booze and a warm body in his bedclothes would dull the ache for a few hours at least, and in the meantime, he could still look upon his Apollo from afar. He could watch his lips move in time to the rhythmic words Enjolras would shout, rallying the people to the cause. He could watch the fire burn in those eyes, and he could try and forget the different light that they had burned with last night. He could try and forget the growl in Enjolras's voice as he had whispered to him, the spark that flashed through his core with every glance and touch. He could try and forget the feeling of Enjolras's lips against his.

He could try to forget. He knew he wouldn't.

Grantaire looked down at Enjolras's sleeping form, so different in sleep than in wakefulness. There was no fire in him now, just peaceful bliss. Grantaire wanted nothing more in the world than to gather him up in his arms and hold him, just to keep him like this, safe and peaceful, where there was no thought of revolution, of the bloody barricades or the deaths that would inevitably come.

He didn't.

Instead, he leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Enjolras's forehead, equal parts gladdened and saddened that the blond man did not stir. He would have given anything in that moment for Enjolras to open his eyes, to smile that sweet smile at him, that secret one that he saved for special moments, and thus very rarely if ever for Grantaire. But opening his eyes and seeing Grantaire would only bring that half-frown of disappointment to his lips, and Grantaire could not handle that this early in the morning, or this sober. So he breathed a sigh of relief that Enjolras stayed undisturbed in his sleep and went to the door of the bedchamber, pausing only once to turn back around and look for once last time on Enjolras’s sleeping form. Then he slipped away, into the cool dawn air, just as the first tendrils of light began to creep over the horizon.

 

* * *

 

By the time evening rolled around, Grantaire had already worked his way through several bottles of wine, at least one bottle of absinthe – the afternoon got decidedly hazy around that point, so he wasn’t sure how much of the green liquid he had consumed – and was halfway through a bottle of some foul brown stuff he had stolen from Bahorel at some point. He tried to remember if there was a Les Amis meeting that evening, but was having difficulty remembering what evening or day it was when a timid knock sounded on the door.

Grantaire tried to heave himself out of his chair but only managed to slide to the floor. “Come in!” he shouted drunkenly, blinking a few times to try and clear the image two doors he suddenly saw in front of him. He blinked again, slowly, and two Enjolras-es swam into view, both looking down at him with somber, disapproving looks on their faces. “Ah, dear Apollo!” slurred Grantaire, lifting the bottle in his hand to toast to the figures in front of him.

Enjolras bent down and wrenched the bottle out of his grip. “I should have known I’d find the wine-cask in such straits,” he groused, setting the bottle on the table, out of Grantaire’s reach. There was the requisite condemnation in his voice, but it was haunted by the shadow of something else, something more – sadness perhaps? Grantaire could not tell, could not even tell if he had invented this whole exchange in his head.

Grantaire made as if to stand, but quickly abandoned these half-hearted efforts. He settled for looking up at Enjolras with a quizzical cock of his head. “Why have you come here, Enjolras? For further humiliation of your Pylades? To apologize once more for breaking my heart – such as it is?”

Enjolras grimaced. “I had wanted to stop by on my way to the Musain to see how you were doing.”

“And now you see.” Grantaire’s voice had turned mocking. “Are you pleased with your handiwork, monsieur? You have spurned me to prevent me any further pain. What think you of that plan now?”

Frowning, Enjolras shook his head. “I think it was a poorly conceived plan from the start,” he said softly, “but infinitely better than the alternative.”

“Then just abandon me to my drink, Apollo!” cried Grantaire. “I am useless for anything else.”

“I cannot do that,” said Enjolras, his voice soft and sad. “No more than I could do that to any of our friends. Whatever is, isn’t, could or cannot be between us, I cannot abandon you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire glared up at him. “Why can’t you just leave me in peace?” he murmured. “You have made your point, through and through. Unless—” Grantaire’s voice suddenly sounded hopeful. “Unless you have changed your mind?”

Sighing, Enjolras knelt down next to Grantaire. “Nothing has changed—” he began, but Grantaire cut him off by placing a sloppy, drunken kiss on his lips. As gently as he could while still being resolute, Enjolras pushed Grantaire away from him and stood. “I should not have come here tonight,” he half-whispered, running a hand through his blond curls. “I should have left well enough alone. This was a mistake.”

“If it was a mistake then it was a good mistake,” muttered Grantaire, still on the floor, but with an odd smile on his face, as if he had not really heard what Enjolras had said. Then he slipped further down on the floor until he lay prostrate on the ground.

Enjolras quickly knelt again. “Grantaire?” he asked, his voice worried. The other man did not answer. Enjolras quickly checked to make sure that Grantaire was still breathing, and as he half-rolled the brunet over, Grantaire let out a snore. “Of course,” sighed Enjolras disapprovingly, but with a glimmer of relief in his voice as well. “Passed out.”

Sighing for what felt like the millionth time that evening, Enjolras pulled Grantaire upright, lifting the other man into his arms. Grantaire was surprisingly light, though considering he seemed to exist solely on alcohol, perhaps it should not have been that surprising. He carried Grantaire into his bedchamber and set him gently on the bed, arranging him into what Enjolras hoped was a comfortable position. He then looked outside at the rapidly fleeting sun and sighed. It was past time that he was at the Musain, but he hated to leave Grantaire here alone.

Duty called, however, and Enjolras had not lied – nothing had changed from the night before; his first and foremost duty was to France and to the people, so with one final glance at Grantaire, Enjolras left the dark-haired man to sleep off the drink. He could not seem to quell the lingering desire to turn around and return to Grantaire’s side.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire awoke with a start. For the brief second before the pounding headache kicked in, he looked at the hunched figure in the chair at the foot of his bed and blinked in recognition. “Enjolras?” he croaked.

“I am here.”

“Wha—what happened?” groaned Grantaire.

Enjolras shifted in the chair, the single lit candle in the room throwing shadows across his face. “You passed out from the drink. I put you to bed and left for Les Amis, and returned some hours ago now to find you exactly as I left you.”

Grantaire squinted through his blinding headache. “But why are you here?”

“I am here because I want to be.”

Groaning again, Grantaire dropped his head back against his bed. “Damn you and your riddles, Apollo. I have not the patience or the presence of mind to decipher your grand oratory now.”

Enjolras chuckled lightly. “I had no idea you were so grandiloquent when you are hung over.”

“And yet you’re as smarmy and obnoxious as ever.” Grantaire rolled over, fixing one bloodshot eye on Enjolras, the other covered by his arm. “Speak plainly. Why are you here, Enjolras?”

Looking down at his hands, Enjolras cleared his throat, suddenly seeming – strangely, impossibly – nervous. Grantaire could not tell if it was the flickering candle but it seemed as if a blush rose in Enjolras’s cheeks. “I thought I had said it plainly enough,” said Enjolras in a low voice. “I am here because I want to be.”

Grantaire stared at him, his overtaxed mind still finding it difficult to process exactly what the blond man meant. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “Oh. OH.” Enjolras’s eyes flickered up to his, then dropped just as quickly, his blush deepening. “Do you truly mean it?”

“I have given it much thought, and…yes.” Enjolras had barely gotten the word out before Grantaire had sat bolt upright and reached out to pull Enjolras out of the chair and onto his bed, kissing him savagely, hangover temporarily forgotten. Enjolras kissed him back for one short moment, then leaned back. “Do not mistake what I mean by this. This is…this can only be physical. I still cannot give you all that you want.”

Looking up at him, Grantaire half-smiled, his eyes dark with heat. “You don’t know what I want.”

Enjolras snorted and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. “Just because I have chosen to abstain for the most part does not mean I am completely ignorant.” His eyes softened. “If all you wanted was physical comfort, you could seek that from any warm body, and I daresay that you have. The fact that after all this time you still want me tells me that you want the one thing that I cannot give to you or anyone.”

“And what thing is that?” challenged Grantaire.

There was a long pause, and then Enjolras replied simply, “More.”

Unexpectedly, Grantaire rolled over on top of Enjolras, pinning the blond man down. He leaned in and kissed Enjolras, surprisingly gentle, though his teeth still scraped against Enjolras’s lower lip, making the blond man moan quietly. “You have given me more than enough.”

“Only because you absurdly think you do not deserve more,” whispered Enjolras. “But you do, Grantaire, and I’m—”

Grantaire cut him off with another kiss, this one none too gentle. “If you apologize to me one more time—” he whispered threateningly against Enjolras’s mouth. “This is my choice as much as it is your own. You chose to come back here tonight. You are here because you want to be. As am I.”

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Enjolras asked weakly, “And if I thought you were making an ill-advised decision…?”

Grantaire nipped at Enjolras’s neck. “Then you would do well to keep your opinion to yourself.” Enjolras looked at him for one long moment, blue eyes searching green, then, finally, he nodded his acquiescence. Grantaire kissed him, slow and sweet. “Perhaps I do want more,” he admitted quietly, tracing Enjolras’s lips with his fingertip. “But for the moment, dear Apollo, I shall take that which I can get.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this chapter took forever because it just did not come together the way I wanted. I'm still not fully satisfied, but thus is life. In the next chapter there will be porn. Just thought I'd give you ample warning ahead of time.


	6. Night 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be porn. Consider yourselves warned.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies.

“Trying to tell you no  
But my body keeps on telling you yes  
Trying to tell you stop  
But your lipstick’s got me so out of breath”

_“This is way too hard_   
_Cuz I know when the sun comes up_   
_I must leave”_

That morning it was Enjolras’s turn to slink away before the sun arose, but Grantaire did not wake until several hours after dawn broke, wrapped as he was in the lingering haze of alcohol and the memory of the previous evening. When he finally did wake, even with a splitting headache, he could not keep the grin off of his face, and for the first time in many days, he did not instantly seek to alleviate his headache by imbibing more alcohol.

In fact, when he strolled into the Musain for Les Amis’ meeting that night, he was still remarkably sober (he had consumed a few glasses of wine, in fairness, but the small amount did nothing more than whet his appetite to see Enjolras again). And, though he was undoubtedly late – if only by half an hour – it was more so that he could see Enjolras’s face turn to him, cut off in mid-sentence, his blue eyes darkening upon seeing the man. Grantaire gave him a lazy smile before sliding into his usual chair in the back of the room, having swiped a bottle of wine from Bahorel on his way in.

Just because he was mostly sober didn’t mean he didn’t intend on drinking.

Especially since, if he didn’t drink, Les Amis would notice far more than anything else, which would only call attention to the secretive smile that hovered on Grantaire’s lips all through Enjolras’s speech, or the way the blond man kept looking over at Grantaire with something more than disapproval creasing his forehead.

So Grantaire continued drinking, first one bottle of wine, and then another, all the while his eyes never leaving Enjolras.

* * *

 

Enjolras, meanwhile, was having difficulty keeping his mind on the speech that he was trying to give. This was why he couldn’t afford distractions. Every time he would work up a crescendo into why the people needed to rise with them, he would look over and see Grantaire staring at him.

Grantaire, who had assuredly arrived late on purpose, looked damnedly delectable, his green eyes lit as if he were in a private joke. And Enjolras watched, mostly from the corner of his eye, trying his hardest to keep his attention focused on the task at hand, not drifting over to the dark corner, to the wine bottle that kept being lifted to those lips, watched as Grantaire’s lips slowly reddened from the stain of the wine.

It was practically obscene how delicious Grantaire’s lips looked when flushed with wine.

Enjolras’s attention was called back to the present by Combeferre asking him concernedly if he felt all right, and he managed to spend the next hour entirely focused on the reports of General Lamarque’s failing health, not glancing even once in the direction of the raven-haired man with the wine-stained lips.

Well, perhaps only once.

At the end of the meeting, as Les Amis collected their belongings and exited the Musain, after agreeing to meet with Combeferre and Courfeyrac the following day to plan further the rally they intended to hold out front of General Lamarque’s home, Enjolras allowed his eyes to drift back over to where Grantaire still sat. “Grantaire,” Enjolras called softly, knowing his voice would carry, “will you stay for a few moments?”

Combeferre shot him a questioning look, but Enjolras simply shook his head, indicating that the other man should head home. At long last, after what seemed like an eternity, the upper room in the Musain was empty, and Enjolras and Grantaire were alone.

* * *

 

Grantaire was not fully drunk, but neither was he as sober as he had been earlier in the day. When he heard Enjolras ask him to stay – command him to stay, more like; when Enjolras asked something of you, it was a command – Grantaire finished the bottle in front of him. Once it seemed everyone had left, he stood, until slightly unsteady, and made his way over to where Enjolras still sat. “Apollo,” said Grantaire, inclining his head in greeting.

Enjolras’s eyes studied him dispassionately, and Grantaire felt suddenly nervous, biting down on his lower lip. To his surprise, Enjolras’s eyes darkened with sudden heat. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?” asked Enjolras in a low voice.

Looking down at himself, Grantaire felt his forehead wrinkle in confusion. He was decently dressed, or at least so he thought, in a mostly-clean waistcoat and a shirt that surely had not been worn more than twice. His cravat wasn’t quite fully straight, but that was a minor complaint at most, especially since Enjolras’s cravat was loosened and the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a glistening gold triangle of smooth skin. He licked his lips nervously and looked back up at Enjolras, who suddenly looked like a cat about to pounce.

And pounce he did, standing from his seat and crossing to Grantaire in one swift motion, his lips suddenly crushed against Grantaire’s with an unexpected force. “I’ve wanted to do that all night,” Enjolras growled in his ear before capturing Grantaire’s lips with his own again.

Grantaire wrapped one hand in Enjolras’s golden curls, kissing him back with a ferocity of his own, opening his lips with a sigh to admit Enjolras’s probing tongue. This was admittedly unexpected, even following Enjolras’s pronouncement the previous night. Nonetheless, Grantaire was hardly one to read too far into things, more than content to let Enjolras’s tongue ravage his own.

Enjolras removed his mouth from Grantaire’s, but only to trail kisses down Grantaire’s neck, which Grantaire rather enjoyed, and, given the suddenly tightness in his pants, his body enjoyed as well. The dark-haired man gave a low moan as Enjolras’s teeth bit down on Grantaire’s collarbone. To Grantaire’s utter shock, Enjolras’s hands trailed downward, fumbling with the fastenings of Grantaire’s trousers, and Grantaire leaned back, his eyes quizzical. “Are you sure—” he started, but stopped short when he saw the look in Enjolras’s eyes.

It could only be described as animalistic, pupils wide and well past the point of logic or argument. So Grantaire did not bother, instead sliding his own hands down to grip Enjolras’s cock through the blond man’s trousers. A sound like a growl was torn from Enjolras’s mouth, and in a moment too quick for Grantaire to fully follow, Enjolras had flipped Grantaire over so that his erection brushed Grantaire’s back.

And then just as suddenly, it seemed, Grantaire lay across the map of Paris that Enjolras had been so diligently been studying and the irony did not escape him. He wanted to make a wry comment about this happening literally on top of Patria, but chose instead to hold his tongue, which was perhaps wise, as thoughts were certainly fleeting given the attention Enjolras was currently lavishing on his nether regions.

Grantaire’s cock was ramrod hard and he gripped the sides of the table with both hands as Enjolras dipped one finger, then two into his opening. “Mon dieu,” Grantaire gasped as Enjolras inserted a third, opening Grantaire in preparation for the glory that was soon to follow, and for just a brief moment, Grantaire allowed himself to bask in the fact that he was about to be taken by a god.

Apparently Enjolras had decided that Grantaire was ready, for he removed his fingers, leaving Grantaire feeling oddly empty. But it was only for a moment, as Enjolras expertly positioned himself behind Grantaire. _For being a virgin, Enjolras is extraordinarily good at this_ , Grantaire thought hazily, then, wonderingly, _Unless if he isn’t a virgin…_

His thoughts were cut off as Enjolras entered him with steady, sure thrusts. _Definitely not a virgin_ , Grantaire managed as one final coherent thought, then gasped as Enjolras began moving faster. Enjolras has one hand on Grantaire’s hip, his fingers digging in sharply enough that Grantaire knew he would have bruises the next day, with his other hand tangled in Grantaire’s hair, pulling on the dark locks with each thrust, adding a sharp yet erotic pain to the ecstasy Grantaire was already feeling.

Enjolras said nothing the entire time, even as Grantaire writhed underneath him, murmuring with increasing desperation, “Dieu in ciel, Enjolras, yes—yes, right there—Putain de merde—plus, Dieu, plus vite—”

Grantaire came hard, clenching around Enjolras with a visceral moan, and that was all it took to bring Enjolras to his own orgasm, pumping in and out of Grantaire as his seed filled the brunet man.

Grantaire felt as if his legs were made of jelly, and if it were not for his iron grip on the table, he would have fallen long ago. He felt Enjolras come in him, felt the other man pull out, but he could not force himself to move, instead lying there, panting.

He heard the sound of Enjolras fixing his clothes behind him, and slowly Grantaire turned around to face him. Enjolras’s face was unreadable, inscrutable, perfectly serene. Grantaire leaned toward Enjolras, who swiftly backed away. “You should clean yourself up.”

The words were like a slap in the face.

With trembling hands, Grantaire tugged up his trousers, keeping his eyes lowered in desperate hope that Enjolras wouldn’t see the flush that spread across his face. _You agreed to this_ , a small voice in Grantaire’s head reminded him. _You agreed – physical, no more. What did you expect?_

Grantaire did not know what he had expected. Certainly he had not expected to get bent over a table in the Musain, but that had less to do with misinterpreting his relationship with Enjolras and more to do with misinterpreting Enjolras’s sexual limits. In truth, Grantaire had expected, well—there was no other way to say it— _more._ The one thing that Enjolras had explicitly stated that he could not give him. And as Grantaire tucked in his shirt and adjusted his waistcoat, he knew that he could handle just this, just the physical, but that did not preclude him from wanting everything that he could not have.

As if he had been reading Grantaire’s thoughts, Enjolras paused at the door, and for just a moment, the impassivity in his eyes faltered. “I did warn you,” he said quietly. “I cannot give you more.” Grantaire stared at him until the blankness crept back over Enjolras’s face. Then Enjolras slipped out the door.

Love and lust were a twisted mess inside Grantaire’s heart, and he stared at the door, half hoping that Enjolras would appear back through it, would sweep Grantaire up in his arms and tell him he had not meant it, half fearing that what would happen if he really did. After a long moment, he sighed and looked down at the table. Out loud, he repeated what he had said to Enjolras just a few short days previous. “There is but one certainty, my full glass.” With that said, he headed to the bar downstairs to fetch himself some absinthe and drink until he forgot this night had ever happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the only porn you'll see in this, fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be. A) I suck at writing it; B) the focus will probably be a bit different from here on out.


	7. Night 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though titled night 7, this actually spans several nights of indeterminate number because I needed to bridge the gap between where the story was at and where it needs to be for the next chapter.
> 
> So, yeah. This is a bit different from the rest. Usual disclaimer: I own only my own typos, and nothing more. 
> 
> Enjolras's bit at the beginning is from [this chapter](http://www.online-literature.com/victor_hugo/les_miserables/303/) of the Brick, bastardized by yours truly and rather obviously not occurring at the same time in this as in the Brick.

“I’ll be waking up in the morning  
Probably hating myself  
And I’ll be waking up  
Feeling satisfied but guilty as hell  
But baby there you go again, there you go again  
Making me love you  
Yeah I stopped using my head, using my head  
Let it all go  
Got you stuck on my body, on my body  
Like a tattoo  
And now I’m feeling stupid, feeling stupid  
Crawling back to you”

_“This is my last glance_  
 _That will soon by memories_  
 _And when the daylight comes I’ll have to go_   
_But tonight I’m gonna hold you so close_  
 _Cuz in the daylight we’ll be on our own_  
 _But tonight I need to hold you so close"_

_  
_

The next few days were filled with flurried preparations, with rousing speeches given by Enjolras to dim, smoke-filled rooms packed with people, or to crowds outside of General Lamarque’s house. Grantaire stood in the crowds or sat in the corner of the cafés, his eyes always watching Enjolras. He alone does not join in the cheers of the crowd as Enjolras shouts, “Citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves? Light! light! everything comes from light, and to it everything returns! Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy, the past loving the present!”

Grantaire wondered if Enjolras truly pictured the future, knew what it could mean for the past to the love the present. Grantaire sat and listened to these pretty speeches and dreamed, dreamed of a life that he would never see, after the barricades when revolution could no longer be an excuse. He watched Enjolras, and he dreamed, but mostly, he stared. He loved to see Enjolras like this. He loved the sight of the man’s face full of power and rage as he shouted, the strength in his arms that he raised over his head, the great and terrible beauty of him with his gold hair framing his face like a halo.

“Courage and onward! Citizens, whither are we going? We are advancing to the union of peoples; we are advancing to the unity of man. One might almost say: There will be no more events. We shall be happy.”

_We could be happy now_. Grantaire would never say those words out loud, but as he watched Enjolras prowl through the Musain, his voice echoing to the farthest corners of the room, he could not help but think them. But he would never interrupt, never draw Enjolras’s attention to him these days, not in that way.

Because Grantaire loved it even more after the speeches were finished, once Les Amis had slipped away from the Musain for the evening, once Grantaire had inevitably followed Enjolras back to his flat. In those moments, a different side of Enjolras is revealed, a side brimming with emotion and underscored with what, in other man, would be described as vulnerability.

The others didn’t get to see Enjolras like this. They didn’t get to see him when he is so elated over breaking through to just one person that he physically takes Grantaire in his arms and whirls him around the room. They didn’t get to see him when he weeps bitterly over the possibility of the people never rising with them. They didn’t see him when he gets angry alone in his room after an argument with Combeferre or Courfeyrac or any of them over his ideals and his methods of how to achieve the revolution.

They didn’t see him like this. Enjolras’s public mask was well-constructed, his emotions reserved fully for inspiring people, for long-winded odes to Patria, to liberty and equality and fraternity. When he spoke in this way, the description of him as a marble statue never seemed more apt, his features perfectly serene, even when alit with revolutionary fervor.

But Grantaire got to see this side of Enjolras. Grantaire got to see him like this. And Grantaire loved him like this, because in these moments, when the façade broke down just enough, Enjolras was Grantaire’s alone.

The moments were never long and never often. All too soon they were broken by the realities of the world, the weight of which Enjolras constantly bears upon his shoulders.

It was a weight Grantaire would help him bear, if only he could.

Instead, he took the moments when he could get them, peppering the moments in between with kisses and glances and as much love as he can possibly give because he knew Enjolras needed it, even if Enjolras would never admit, even if he’ll never acknowledge it. And if Enjolras could only respond with hasty intercourse, could only react through the blood bruises he left on Grantaire’s skin before indicating that the dark-haired man should leave as the sun rose, then Grantaire bore it for Enjolras’s sake.

And sometimes it was lonelier, lonelier than Grantaire felt before he and Enjolras had started this whole thing, so lonely that Grantaire sometimes felt that he might drown in it. But every time Enjolras threw a glance or a smile at him, every time he squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder when he passes him in the Musain, every time his eyes crinkled as he shakes his head exasperatedly at his drunken antics, it made it completely worth it to Grantaire. Every time Enjolras seemed to forget himself, to run his hand through Grantaire’s hair as they lay, panting, in bed, or when he distractedly pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s forehead, or when, mid-passion, his voice choked with lust and physical ecstasy, he started to say the one thing Grantaire would die to hear him say. Even though Enjolras always caught himself, never finished the three-word sentence, it was enough for Grantaire.

* * *

Enjolras woke early one morning, before the first rays of light had crept through the cracks in the wooden shuttered windows. At first, Enjolras was disoriented and could not understand what had brought him from his slumber. Then he saw the faint outline of Grantaire hastily dressing in the dark and realized that he had woken because of the sudden absence of the other man from his bed.

Grantaire had become an installation in Enjolras’s life – or perhaps more accurately, his bed – over the past several nights. Enjolras had mostly managed to quell the feelings of guilt that tended to fester following their lovemaking, when they both lay panting beside one another, before full coherent thought had returned to him. In those moments, Grantaire would turn and look at him, flushed and out of breath, with a smile just beginning to curl up the edges of his mouth and an almost shy look in his eyes.

No one got to see Grantaire the way that Enjolras did in those moments. The others only saw drunken “R”, the caricature of himself that he brought to the Musain, the mask he hid behind that is nearly as carefully constructed as Enjolras’s own. Certainly Grantaire was freer with his emotions than Enjolras, but only that sliver of emotion that never revealed the true depths of what he felt.

Grantaire reserved his true emotions for Enjolras, his eyes lighting up every time Enjolras walked into the room. Grantaire laughed freely around Enjolras, not the sardonic laughter he used to scorn Les Amis, but true laughter, full of joy. He saved his sweet smiles, his gentle touches, his mostly-sober moments, and his passion, all for Enjolras.

Enjolras wanted to badly for Grantaire to be able to show that side of himself to someone else, anyone else, so that Enjolras alone would not be in charge of guarding the heart of the dark-haired man. Enjolras knew he was not worthy to be on the receiving end of such affections, not when he knew he could never return them in the way that Grantaire wanted, in the way that Grantaire deserved.

But it was just so _easy_ – which Enjolras had never expected – so easy to be comfortable with Grantaire, so easy to take his physical pleasure from Grantaire. And though it was perhaps the most selfish thing in which he had ever engaged, Enjolras had to admit that acting out his physical urges on Grantaire left him feeling satiated and energized when he next awoke, and rather than distracting him during the day, gave him a renewed fervor in what he was doing.

And it was a fervor that was desperately needed those days; flickers of rebellion were beginning to catch across the city, with General Lamarque’s fading health at the forefront, and igniting these flickers into a blaze was as precarious a task as Enjolras had ever encountered. Push too hard, and the rebellion could end before it could properly begin; push too lightly or too late, and the flickers could fade before they could ever even grow.

Enjolras allowed himself to be selfish, far more selfish than he should ever be. “Must you leave so early?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep. “I would permit you to stay for a little while longer at least.”

Grantaire did not turn around, and Enjolras only knew that he had heard from the sudden tightening in his shoulders. “I do not think that is for the best. The night has ended; it makes little sense to hold on to that which cannot endure.”

“The night has not yet ended; dawn has not yet broken,” countered Enjolras, sitting up slightly in bed. Grantaire turned slowly, indecision written all over his face. “We may have a few minutes yet together.” The look on Grantaire’s face was almost tortured, and Enjolras wanted to take his words back, to just have let Grantaire walk out the door, but he has started this, and will carry it through. “Grantaire—”

A ray of light broke through a slat in the shutters and struck Enjolras directly in the face, throwing his features into sharp relief. “Too late, the light has arrived,” said Grantaire, softly and a little sad. “Apollo awakes and the illusion is broken.”

“Grantaire—” Enjolras started again, but Grantaire simply held up one hand.

“This is your time, O Sun god. When the daylight creates a halo of your hair and drives even the drunkest cynics to turn from their bottles to watch you as you drive the people into a sun-stirred frenzy. This is not my time, and thus, can never be our time.” His voice broke a little on the word “our”, and Enjolras’s breath hitched in his throat. “Ours is the night.”

It took more effort than it ever had, far more effort than Grantaire would ever know, to allow the mask to slip back into place, but after a long moment, Enjolras looked at Grantaire with his most impassive expression. “Of course,” he said coolly. “You should take your leave. I shall see you at the Musain later.”

Grantaire bowed his head slightly. “When night falls, there I shall be.”

Then he left. Enjolras lay back against the bed for just a moment, closing his eyes in an attempt to either remember or erase all that had been said. Then he stood. He had work to do.


	8. Night 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't own them, only my mistakes.
> 
> Beginning of the end; only two more chapters to go! Thanks to everyone who has stuck with it thus far!

“So I cross my heart and I hope to die  
That I’ll only stay with you one more night  
And I know I said it a million times  
But I’ll only stay with you one more night”

_“I never wanted to stop_  
 _Because I don’t want to start all over_  
 _Start all over”_

“General Lamarque is dead.”

The words from little Gavroche echoed through the Musain, and all eyes instantly turned to Enjolras, who stood frozen for just a moment, then straightened. “Citizens, General Lamarque’s death is surely fate come to us as a sign. The revolution is at hand. At General Lamarque’s funeral our stand shall be made. The barricades shall rise and the people, alit with fervor at Lamarque’s death, shall rise readily to our cause.”

“Here, here,” cheered someone.

The group quickly disbanded, tasks handed out to those willing to ensure that others were ready to stand with them. Courfeyrac and Combeferre crowded around Enjolras, who had taken a seat at the table, gesturing at something of interest on the map in front of him, his face alive with a savage excitement.

Grantaire remained in his corner, feeling a weight like a rock settle into his stomach. This was it, he supposed, the turning point, or else the point of no return. From here on out, plans were being made that could not be undone, events put into motion that could not be reversed. Enjolras was animated, alive at the prospect; Grantaire felt he was staring death in the face.

The cynic – though he would argue he was really a realist, or at least he would if he cared enough to make a response, which, typically, he did not – had long known that this was the avenue down which Les Amis were headed. The road they had long ago taken led only in one direction: revolution, where either complete victory or total defeat were the only options afforded. It would be no surprise to anyone that Grantaire suspected they were headed toward the latter.

Unlike Enjolras, Grantaire did not have an inherent belief in the goodness of people. Grantaire knew without a doubt that people were on the whole terrible, especially to their fellow man, at every chance they got. He had seen nothing in the world to prove that the contrary was true, and thus knew that when the time came, the people would not stir, and that most, if not all, of the men currently in this room would be dead within two days’ time.

But the past several days had somehow masked this thought from Grantaire. In truth, he had spent the past few days as close to happy as he had been in years, and that alone was enough to obscure the truth temporarily from him. Now, though, it all comes rushing back, along with utter, gut-wrenching realization that for all the happiness and contentment he has felt the past few days, it will all come to a very sudden end sooner rather than later.

Being an alcoholic who had nearly drank himself to death on numerous occasions, Grantaire had probably had more opportunity than most to contemplate his own mortality, and had come to an uneasy truce with the idea years before. But as he watched Enjolras, watched the fire that lit up the man’s eyes, watched as Enjolras just looked so damn _alive_ , it occurred to him that he had never once contemplated Enjolras’s mortality.

Gods couldn’t die, could they?

Then again, had Enjolras not proven, time and time again these past several days, just how very human he was?

And for the first time, the complete enormity of what they had committed over the course of the last week or so hit Grantaire as if it was a ton of bricks. He had tarnished a god, or at the very least, brought an angel down to Earth. And what was worse – he would do it, time and time again, consequences be damned. He replayed Enjolras’s words, “ _I’m here because I want to be_ ” over and over in his head, and stood abruptly. If it was truly too late for any of them, as he believed it to be, he needed more wine.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Enjolras finally left the café, satisfied with the plans and contingencies for the morrow that been hammered out between himself, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He had spent the past few hours conferring with his lieutenants, and had not once glanced at the corner where Grantaire steadily drank.

As Enjolras left the Musain, he seemed positively ebullient, radiating barely controlled energy. He seemed to dim, slightly, when he realized that Grantaire trailed after him, but he did not tell the dark-haired man to leave. He did not say anything until they arrived at Enjolras’s flat. Grantaire followed Enjolras inside, already loosening his cravat in the pattern they had fallen into over the past few days, when Enjolras reached out his hand to stop him. “No, Grantaire.”

Grantaire looked up at him, confused. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean we cannot do this. Not any longer.”

“Not any longer?” Grantaire repeated, trying to keep the sudden hysterical laughter he could feel bubbling up in his chest from spilling forth. “What difference does it make if we take tonight for ourselves? The revolution will come just the same.”

Enjolras looked at him, his voice quiet but firm. “It makes all the difference. And it will not happen. Not tonight. Not again.”

Since this whole sordid affair had begun, Grantaire had become used to seeing a different side of Enjolras when they were alone at night together. A gentler, almost human side.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, the marble statue that Enjolras was to the outside world was also what Grantaire saw. No longer was there any glimmer of love or even lust in Enjolras’s eyes, replaced only by cold steel. The barricades may not have gone up on the street yet, but already they had been erected in Enjolras’s mind.

“I can afford no distractions.” There was a flinty quality to Enjolras’s voice, the kind that in any of Les Amis’ meetings would have inspired obedience without question, but this was Grantaire, who never took order without question.

Grantaire set his jaw stubbornly. “Are you saying that is all I have been these past several days? A distraction, and nothing more?”

Enjolras gazed at him dispassionately. “Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?” he asked calmly. “I have made no allusions to the contrary.”

 _No allusions?_ Grantaire wanted to scream at him, _just the kissing and the fucking and the holding and the nights_ filled _with allusions?_ He didn’t, though. Enjolras was past the point of caring about temper tantrums. So Grantaire did the only thing left in his arsenal: he grabbed Enjolras’s face and crushed his lips against the blond man’s.

It was like kissing a statue.

It was worse, so much worse, that Enjolras did not push Grantaire away, did not throw him across the room as surely he was able. Instead, he did nothing more than stand there, entirely immobile. And it broke Grantaire’s heart more than anything else, because Enjolras did not even care enough to fight back against him.

Grantaire broke off, eyes searching Enjolras’s, seeking something, anything, that would show that it had not come to this, that they were not truly ending, not here, not now. Whatever he searched for, he did not find, and he felt tears threaten in his eyes and quickly dropped his eyes from Enjolras’s, raising his hands to try only half-heartedly to hide the tears. “Enjolras—” he started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“You should go,” said Enjolras, his voice calm.

Grantaire did not look at him, did not raise his head from his hands. “I shall hardly stay  where I now know that I am so unwanted,” he said bitterly.

“I mean—” A slight hesitation, for the first time that evening. “I do not just mean that you should take your leave from here. You should leave Paris, Grantaire. Or at the very least stay away from the barricade.”

Grantaire’s eyes flashed forward, and if Enjolras was surprised by the sudden fury that engulfed them, he did not show it. “Why?” snarled Grantaire. “Are you afraid I will distract you?”

Enjolras just looked at him. “Yes,” he said simply. “I am afraid that you shall do something foolish and wind up getting yourself or, worse, someone else, killed for it. And I can ill afford to be spending my time concerned with that when there is revolution to be won.”

“You fear I would do something foolish?” whispered Grantaire. “The only thing I have ever done is loved you. I would die for you, Enjolras, take a bullet through my heart if it meant you were to live. I do not believe in revolution, in the republic, only in you, and yet you would send me from your side on the eve of battle?”

It was Enjolras’s turn to avert his eyes. “I have not, nor would I ever, ask you to die for me.”

“That is not the point and you know it!” shouted Grantaire, his face flushed with anger and wine. “You would rather die alone than with me by your side. But unfortunately for you, Apollo, you are no god, and I am no slave to take orders from you.”

Sighing almost sadly, Enjolras whispered, “It was never I who elevated myself to godhood, Grantaire. That veneration came from you alone.”

Grantaire barked a laugh that was bitter and wounded. “Of course, Apollo, you would never ask that I worship you, just that I follow blindly the virtues you espouse, just that I drop into your bed and let you have your way with me, but never can I ask for more, never can I seek more.”

A muscle twitched in Enjolras’s jaw. “I did warn you, back when this began. I warned you that I could not give you more, gave you every opportunity to turn back—”

“Ah, of course, you warned me, how stupid of me to forget.” Grantaire was practically screaming now, but could not find it in himself to care. If Enjolras didn’t live like a monk and actually had some possessions on hand, Grantaire would have thrown them at this point. “But of course, that’s precisely what you think of me, stupid, drunk Grantaire, who has done nothing but worship and love you. I was the perfect candidate for you to act your urges upon, I see that now. No wonder you tolerated me for so long.”

Enjolras’s hand twitched at his side, as if it longed to do damage, but Enjolras’s voice did not seem strained as he answered, “There is a very distinct difference between love and worship, Grantaire. And I have sought neither from you.”

“Never sought, no, never sought, but they were freely given and never did you reject them.” Both men stared at each other for a long moment, then Grantaire swallowed hard and squared his shoulders, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and hard. “Very well, Apollo. There seems to be nothing left to say here. An impasse, yet again. Instead, I shall see you on the barricade, where I solemnly swear that I shall do nothing foolish, nothing to jeopardize your precious revolution. I shall lift no hand to help save you or any of the others.” He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back, his eyes bright and full of something close to hatred. “And I pray that my death may come swiftly so that I will no longer be a distraction to you,” spat Grantaire.

He crossed to the door but had just reached for the handle when Enjolras barreled into him, pinning him against the wall, his forearm across Grantaire’s throat so that the brunet could barely breathe. Then Enjolras was kissing him, harder and sweeter and infinitely more desperate than ever before. Enjolras rested his forehead against Grantaire’s, his hand running through the inky curls. “I told you once before,” he said in a low voice, “I will not have your blood on my hands. Stay away from the barricades, Grantaire, for my sake as much as your own.”

“It’s far too late for that,” whispered Grantaire, tears pricking, unbidden, in his eyes. “Where you go I will always follow.”

Enjolras swallowed, hard; Grantaire could see his Adam’s apple bob against whatever emotion he was quashing inside himself. Then Enjolras straightened and stepped backwards, releasing Grantaire. “Then we part as comrades in arms.” A beat, then, so softly that Grantaire almost didn’t hear it, “And nothing more.”

The tears began to fall from Grantaire’s eyes, and he wanted more than anything to throw himself on the blond man in front of him, to break through the icy façade once more. Instead, he forced a small smile to his lips and reached up to touch Enjolras’s cheek gently. “I am not your mistress, and Patria calls. Harden your heart, do what you must. I shall steel my resolve, we shall meet at the barricade, and when the people rise, we will bring forth the republic. And we…we will be fine.”

The lies had never tasted so bitter coming from his mouth.


	9. Night 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I literally rewrote this about 3 times and am still not satisfied. Continued editing may happen or I may just let it be as is. We'll see.
> 
> More speeches stolen/mutilated from the Brick in this chapter.
> 
> I own nothing save my own mistakes.

“But baby there you go again, there you go again  
Making me love you  
Yeah I stopped using my head, using my head  
Let it all go  
Got you stuck on my body, on my body  
Like a tattoo"

_“I was afraid of the dark_  
 _But now it’s all that I want_  
 _All that I want”_

True to his word, Grantaire was there the next day, working silently alongside everyone else in building the barricade. Enjolras looked over at him once as he stacked a chair against the side of the barricade. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, Enjolras thought about saying something, about thanks Grantaire for being here, perhaps, or asking him one final time to leave before the National Guard appeared and it was too late. But Grantaire looked away almost instantly, and Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’s arm to get his attention, and the moment was lost.

Only a small portion of the day was spent in the frenzied preparations of the barricade itself; Les Amis had planned for this moment well, and it went off as smoothly as could be expected. Much of the afternoon, then, was spent in something close to breathless anticipation, as a nervous current ran through the crowd.

Enjolras stood atop the barricade, sighting down the barrel of his gun, prepared as any for what was to come, his red jacket that he had not shed like a flame that drew the eye to it. Then he turned to survey the barricade, and seeing every eye drawn to him, straightened and began to speak. “Citizens, whatever happens to-day, through our defeat as through our victory, it is a revolution that we are about to create. As conflagrations light up a whole city, so revolutions illuminate the whole human race. And what is the revolution that we shall cause? The Revolution of the True.”

His words were met with a resounding “Huzzah!” save from a lone figure lounging against the wall of the Musain, a bottle already clutched in one grasp. Grantaire’s lips twitched slightly as he caught Enjolras looking at him, but did not move and dropped his eyes quickly. _Trying not to distract me_ , Enjolras thought, but the sudden twist in his heart was far more distracting than Grantaire could ever be.

* * *

 The evening had been eventful, to say the least. Grantaire, in an attempt to keep his cover as being dedicated to the cause an not trying to distract Enjolras, had attempted to escort the spy Inspector Javert into the café, had been thrown off by the man’s superior strength, and had watched from his position on the ground as Enjolras was punched squarely in the face.

He had never felt so much like fighting in that moment – no, more than fighting, he had never felt so much like killing in that moment. Anyone who dared lay a finger on Apollo deserved the slowest and most painful death that Grantaire would be immensely happy to provide.

The moment was quickly past, as Enjolras laid the inspector out with one blow from his own truncheon, but still the fury coursed through Grantaire’s veins. He drank some wine in an attempt to quell the fire, but it only settled to a low simmer, a simmer which threatened to explode following the death of Éponine Thénardier.

Grantaire had not known the Thénardier girl well, if at all. He vaguely recalled meeting her at some point in time or another, and to his knowledge, Enjolras had not known her at all either. But as Grantaire watched Enjolras, he watched grief etch itself into the lines of his face, and Grantaire was surprised, to say the least. In fairness, the grief lasts for only a beat before sinking back into the stoic normalcy, but Grantaire is nonetheless surprised to have seen any emotion there at all.

For a moment, something close to rage boiled under his skin, and he clamped his mouth closed to stop from shouting something he’ll undoubtedly regret at Enjolras. But really, truly, Enjolras had complained of Grantaire distracting him when he allowed himself to be sidelined by grief over the death of a grisette he barely even knew?

When had Enjolras every publicly showed even a fraction of this amount of emotion for Grantaire? When had Enjolras ever publicly showed he cared?

His anger at Enjolras was quickly turning into rage at the whole damned situation. Enjolras had no right to grieve, not when it was he who had brought them all together for this godforsaken revolution. He must have planned for this, after all. It’s a miracle that more of them aren’t lying dead, that Joly is only tending to a few minor wounds. Enjolras must have prepared himself that some would pay the ultimate sacrifice to bring the revolution to light. Why, then, the grief that it had actually occurred according to plan?

_Because anyone dying was not part of the plan, you twat_ , his inner voice chided him. _Enjolras’s plan is for a France where all can be free and he wants every man here to live to see that._ And Grantaire knew that was true, in the deep place of his heart that perhaps hadn’t hardened all the way. But his anger and his frustration and the cold edge of fear that the wine couldn’t quite keep at bay were strongly overriding whatever logic was trying to tell him.

 But truly – when had Enjolras ever cared? Maybe if it were one of his lieutenants lying dead on the ground. Then Enjolras’s grief would be understandable. Then again, and here Grantaire’s thoughts turned contemplatively, the fury dialed back to a low simmer, perhaps Enjolras grieved the way that Grantaire could imagine God grieving. Impersonal, the grief that stems from life lost in general. Any soul lost for the cause of Patria was probably worth grieving in Enjolras’s eyes.

_It’s more than that, and you know it_ , the voice inside Grantaire’s head continues. _He grieves because he loves, he loves all the men here who have come to fight for Patria. He grieves because he would give anything to ensure that none of them fell, if only he could._

Grantaire snorted and raised the bottle in his hand to his lips, hoping the wine would quell the voice that would not be silenced. Enjolras loved nothing, save for Patria, and felt nothing besides revolutionary fervor in her honor. No voice in his head, no matter how insistent, would convince him otherwise, not after the previous night.

_But you remember. Enjolras does feel, does love. Enjolras loves perhaps more than any man, for his love for his fellow man transcends all. He fights for love more so than a husband fighting to protect his wife. And he feels every wound, every death, as if it is struck against his own flesh. And if he loves and feels more than any other man, surely it must stand to reason that he fears what may happen on this barricade more than any other man as well_.

As if Enjolras could hear what the whispering voice inside Grantaire’s head was arguing, he straightened and looked around at the assembled men. “Friends, the present hour in which I am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are terrible purchases of the future.” His voice was quiet, not filled, at first, with the fire that they had come to expect, though still it carried across the barricade. “A revolution is a toll. O! the human race will be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this barrier. Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the heights of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction, of those who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is not made of paving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron; it is made of two heaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes. Here misery meets the ideal.”

Ideas and woes. Grantaire knew instantly what heap he had contributed to, but as he watched Enjolras help Combeferre carry the body away into the café, he wondered for the first time if perhaps Enjolras had contributed to both heaps.

He took a long pull from the bottle, and the voice in his head was quiet, but he could practically feel the smugness rolling off of it. He could not help but think to the night before, to the moment he had tried to drown all day today, had tried to block from his memory, of the heat and the worry and the indefinable _something_ in Enjolras’s eyes when he practically begged Grantaire to stay away from the barricades.

And that was the ultimate crux of the matter – Grantaire knew possibly more so than any other present the depth of Enjolras’s feelings and thus, more so than any other, more so than perhaps he even had the right to, he wanted Enjolras to show him that emotion just once more. Once more before they met whatever fate lay before them, at the end of a bayonet, or draped across the barricade with bullets riddled in their flesh or – and Grantaire would not allow himself to even begin to hope for this – making it through unscathed. He longed for any show of emotion from the blond man, just an acknowledgement of any variety to prove that still he felt something for Grantaire.

Damn Enjolras for telling Grantaire not to distract him, though really, such a command was unnecessary. Grantaire would do anything in his power to ensure that Enjolras did not fall on the barricade, including removing himself from the equation if that seemed necessary. The issue was more that Grantaire’s plan for Enjolras’s survival ran almost directly counter to Enjolras’s plan for the revolution.

Grantaire settled back against the barricade, raising his bottle once more to his lips. He would not actively seek Enjolras out, would at least obey the directive he had been given in that regard, but if the opportunity arose, Grantaire would try to prove to himself for the last time that Enjolras really did care.

* * *

 It was late; the night hours had stretched into the early morning. Most of Les Amis had settled in for the night, save Courfeyrac, who had been given the watch by Enjolras, and Enjolras himself, who was prowling around the barricade in a manner that suggested that he wanted to be doing _something_ , but there was nothing for him to do.

Somehow Enjolras ended up standing next to where Grantaire sat, still awake. Grantaire looked up at him, customary bottle of wine clenched in his fist. He hesitated, then offered it to Enjolras, who just shook his head. Shrugging, Grantaire drained the bottle then tossed it away. “You could sit, you know,” he said, conversationally.

Enjolras glanced down at him and sighed. “Not tonight, Grantaire. There’s far too much left to do before tomorrow.”

“What is there left to do?” challenged Grantaire. “Courfeyrac has the watch and even you need to rest.” Enjolras remained impassive, and Grantaire changed tactics. “No one will begrudge you a few hours of rest,” he said softly, “especially with what you and I both know is coming. Don’t spend your last night alone, Enjolras. It’s not worth it.”

Blinking, Enjolras frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said coldly. “The people will rise with us on the morrow and our revolution will triumph.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” Grantaire’s words were stark, but surprisingly gentle. Enjolras hesitated and Grantaire added, so softly that Enjolras almost didn’t hear him, “Please, Enjolras. For one more night.”

For a moment, just a moment, the hard look in Enjolras's eyes melted, but whatever it could have turned into was changed in just a moment more to a flash of guilt, and in that moment Grantaire understood. Well, not understood, perhaps, but he realized. For Enjolras to allow himself comfort was to acknowledge that he was human and shared the fears that all the men surrounding them were trying to choke down at this very moment. And Enjolras could not reveal himself to be as such without shaking the core of the group, which was, of course, the one thing that Enjolras refused to do.

In other words, in this as in everything, Enjolras was being  _noble_.

But Grantaire was not noble. Grantaire was selfish and self-serving and head-over-heels in love with the noble man who stood before him, torn between love of country and—if not love—feelings of a different variety. He had vowed not to be a distraction, but at this point, it seemed to him that Enjolras needed nothing more than a distraction at that moment. And though he did not want to see the guilty look in Enjolras’s eyes, though he could not bear the thought of causing the other man pain, Grantaire could not stop himself from asking, just once more, in the quietest voice he thought he had ever used, “Please?”

Enjolras hesitated for half a moment, and Grantaire allowed himself to feel a brief glimmer of hope. Someone, Combeferre, maybe, it was hard to see in the half-light, walked behind them, and Enjolras snapped, “Grantaire, go get rid of the fumes of your wine somewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusiasm, not for drunkenness. Don’t disgrace the barricade!”

Grantaire blinked, looking taken aback, but then looked up into Enjolras’s eyes. There was an expression there that Grantaire had rarely if ever seen, a pleading, almost begging for Grantaire to understand. And after a moment, he did. “Let me sleep here,” he said, his voice gentle.

“Go and sleep somewhere else.”

Grantaire could barely keep the smile from his face. “Let me sleep here—until I die.”

With a toss of his head, Enjolras retorted, “Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, or living, and of dying.”

This was such a familiar argument that anyone who had been paying attention – anyone still awake, at least – had now turned away. Listening to Enjolras and Grantaire fight was appealing to no one, especially on an evening such as this. Grantaire waited for a beat, then stated, his voice low but full of everything he felt at that moment, “You will see.” Then he tipped a wink at Enjolras to let him know that he had caught on.

Enjolras huffed, visibly annoyed, then winked back before settling down on the barricade next to him. “If you insist on staying, I cannot stop you,” he muttered, but now the slightest smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as well.

From the way they were positioned, it was easy for Grantaire to reach out and take Enjolras’s hand, stroking the smooth skin the way he had done so many times. That was how they fell asleep, holding hands on the barricade, together for one more night.


	10. Daytime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own them, only the errors you find here.

“So I cross my heart and I hope to die  
That I’ll only stay with you one more night  
And I know I said it a million times  
But I’ll only stay with you one more night”

_“And when the daylight comes I’ll have to go_  
 _But tonight I’m gonna hold you so close_  
 _Cuz in the daylight we’ll be on our own  
_ _But tonight I need to hold you so close"_

 

When Grantaire woke the next day, Enjolras had long since left his side, and the entire world had gone to hell

Grantaire tried his hardest to find Enjolras in the fray, but could barely manage to keep from getting struck, at least not too badly. It became apparent all too quickly that Grantaire’s worst suspicions were going to come true, as he watched friend after friend struck down. He prayed to whatever God there may be that he did not accidentally stumble upon the splayed body of a blond in a bullet-ridden red jacket. If there was a God, if there was any mercy in this world, a bullet or a cannonball would find its mark in Grantaire long before it took down his Apollo.

He did not know what happened, why he was not killed, but he watched the National Guard troop into the Musain and knew that they could only be after one person. Only one person would have inspired a firing squad to pursue him.

He heard shots, and thought his heart might stop then and there.

Had the moment finally arrived, the moment he dreaded, where his heart still beat in a world where it was alone? He had to know. He had to see for himself. So he stumbled into the Musain, and found his way to the upstairs room, and as soon as he saw that Enjolras still lived, he could not stop himself from shouting, “Long live the Republic! I’m one of them!”

The National Guardsmen turned slightly to exchange startled glances, some even lowering their guns uncertainly, but Grantaire had eyes for Enjolras alone. Grantaire stared at the man in front of him, at the grim look of defeat that was so out of place on his face. His perfect, bloodied, marred face. It could have been years, days, minutes, or even just seconds that their eyes met across the room. In that moment, all Grantaire could remember was part of Enjolras’s speech from the night previous—

_“The day embraces the night, and says to it: ‘I am about to die, and thou shalt be born again with me.’ From the embrace of all desolations faith leaps forth. Sufferings brings hither their agony and ideas their immortality. This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn_.”

The day embraces the night, and perhaps even Grantaire had a chance to die flooded with the dawn, with Enjolras’s light that filled his eyes. At the very least, it would be eternal night soon for both of them.

So even though it was daytime, it was Apollo’s time, it was – as Grantaire had avowed – not _their_ time, still Grantaire approached Enjolras, weaving unsteadily through the National Guard as if they were specters. Perhaps, this close to death, they were.

In far too short a time and far too long a journey, he reached Enjolras and stood in front of him. He had to know, here at the end, had to ask, had to question – had to know if even though they were in daylight, they could be for one last moment in the embrace of night.

“Do you permit it?”

His voice was soft, gentle, his eyes focused solely on the blond man in front of him. They had lost. They had lost everything. They had lost everything but this. And it was selfish of Grantaire, selfish that after they had lost everything he would still hold on to this, but in these last moments, he needed to know.

Something lifted in Enjolras’s face, and he no longer looked broken. Together, in this moment, they were complete in each other, and in answer to Grantaire’s question, and to the hundreds of other questions that remained unasked, but no longer unanswered, Enjolras reached down and grasped Grantaire’s hand, this gesture and an accompanying smile being the only answers that he gave.

They are the only answers that Grantaire needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading! I've loved and hated writing this and at the moment am just glad it's over! I will be rejoining the Modern AU world soon, where writing them is so much easier and doesn't make me throw things in frustration.


End file.
